


Can't Kill The Monster That Feeds on You

by old_gods_of_asgard



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fix-it fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, currently on hiatus, my apologies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_gods_of_asgard/pseuds/old_gods_of_asgard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>And this is one sacrifice I don't want to make...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>In the time since Loki, Clint has done nothing but crashed, violently and sans any grace. Tony's pretty sure he can do better than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No End

**Author's Note:**

> This work is currently on hiatus. Terribly sorry for any inconvenience this causes.

It’s sometime after midnight that Tony hears it. It’s faint, and he almost convinces himself he’s just hearing things because he’s half awake and only out of bed because he’s getting in late. But the noise becomes louder the closer he gets to Clint’s room, and there’s no mistaking where it’s coming from or what it is. 

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, giving a half-ass knock on the door. He’s not really in the mood to play nanny to a sick man who’s grown up and can very well take care of his own damn self, but he figures he should at least check on him. When Clint doesn’t answer and the puking resumes he just throws his hands up and opens the door. 

The room is a pigsty, and that’s putting it nicely. The windows are gaping holes in the wall and Tony wonders where the fuck the glass went; the lamps are all off save one, each of them bereft of bulbs, and the mattress is off the bed, in the middle of the floor with piles and piles of blankets on and around it. It looks like a cocoon. Empty liquor bottles, clothes, and weapons litter the floor and the TV has a nice hole punched right through the screen. 

The smell of death creeps up on him and he wonders how the fuck this went unnoticed to him, or anyone else, and how long it’s been like this. Surely Natasha or Bruce would have said something. They spend enough time around Clint, wouldn’t they have been in his room? They had to have been. They’ve all been here a half a year. 

He pushes the thought back, saving it to ask them later, and heads to the bathroom. Sure enough, Clint is in there, sitting on his knees in front of the toilet with his arms wrapped around his stomach. The bathroom is the most brightly lit area in his room, but it’s just as dirty, with more bottles in the sink and puke stains on the toilet. Tony leans in the door to take it in and give Clint a second more to finish emptying his stomach, and when it becomes apparent he won’t he asks: “What the fuck happened?” 

It’s crass, and the crassness isn’t missed by Clint. He turns his head away just a bit, just enough, looking at the caulk at the bottom of the toilet. “Just a bad dream, sir,” he tosses the title out thanks to habit and leans back a bit, groaning noiselessly and flinching. Tony just nods, unconvinced, and thinks for a moment. Clint is hung over, maybe, or drunk. It’s kind of sad, but he looks delicate there on the floor, all folded into himself and everything. 

Tony takes a step into the bathroom, kicking aside a few empty cans and nasty food wrappers, and puts a hand on Clint’s head. It’s awkward, and he has no idea what he’s doing, so he just begins rubbing it gently. “Is that what you’re telling yourself, champ?” 

“It’s true,” Clint says, with an unintentional earnestness that makes Tony think maybe it isn’t a total lie, but it’s certainly not the full truth. Tony actually starts to feel bad for him, and he lowers his hand down to rub at the nape of Clint’s neck. He’s a little surprised when Clint leans into the touch, laying his head against Tony’s knee. 

Realizing Clint probably won’t go anywhere on his own for a while, Tony crouches down just a bit and slips his hands under the smaller man’s. “C’mon, up we go.” He says, hoisting him to his feet. Clint groans in protest but ends up leaning back against Tony anyway. 

“Where we going,” he mutters, tilting his head backwards to look into his face. “M’bed?” 

“Yes, darling, your nest,” Tony corrects and starts to half-help, half-carry him along. 

Clint tries to pull away, muttering, “I can do it myself, my legs still work, okay.” The words come out awkwardly, like he’s trying too hard to articulate. Tony just rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess,” he replies, but slides himself past Clint a little. Hooking one arm around his torso and the other behind and around his knees, Tony lifts him off the ground. Clint wraps his arms around his neck and holds on just a bit too tightly, clearly shaken from the sudden movements. 

Tony carries him across the litter-strewn floor to his bed and tries kicking some of the blankets away, but gives up when he realizes they’re too tangled up with each other. He lays Clint down on the pile and instead sets about disentangling a few of them from each other. The room is too cold with the AC on, but it’d be too warm without it. Tony figures it’d probably be better this way for him, and he ends up half swaddling Clint in his covers. 

He stands back to admire his work, hands on his hips and asks, “There, all better? That wasn’t so hard. And I even turned you onto your side so if you puke in your sleep you won’t drown.” 

Clint makes a noise that might be words, but Tony can’t tell what it is; he leans down closer and is telling Clint to repeat when a hand shoots out and grabs the collar of his shirt. “Don’t. Leave.” It’s a request, not an order, but it’s a bizarre one. Tony leans forward a bit more, then back again, hoping that Clint will let go of his shirt. Peering into the pile of covers he realizes the agent is staring up at him in an almost pleading manner, and as much as he prides himself on being an arrogant asshole, he can’t say no. 

He takes Clint’s wrist and unhooks his hand from his collar, then stands back up and kicks off his shoes. It isn’t until he’s done with this that Clint lets his hand drop and he starts worming his way out of the covers a bit, trying to loosen them up and make room for Tony. 

It’s kind of sad, really, when Clint immediately latches onto Tony, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He’s mature enough to not do that. He’s really just thankful that Clint is dressed in sleeping pants and a thick sweater and too drunk to get an awkward boner. 

Unsure of what to do when he realizes the assassin isn’t going to loosen his grip or go to sleep soon, Tony raises a hand to Clint’s back and begins stroking it softly, muttering, “There, there. That’s a good assassin. Just close your eyes and relax and let Papa Stark stroke all your worries away…”

Clint makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle, and at first Tony grins; it isn’t until he feels his collarbone growing cold and wet that he realizes Clint’s not laughing. The sound comes again and he buries his face deeper into the bigger man’s shoulder. Tony remains quiet for what feels like a very, very painful long time, until Clint speaks. 

“I’m sorry I broke your TV.” 

“Hey. Hey, there,” Tony replies soothingly, “Hey.” He doesn’t know what to say. “It was only a thousand bucks, I can get you a new one tomorrow.” He says it so smoothly he doesn’t realize Clint probably takes things like money and expensive TVs very seriously; luckily, he starts to ramble again and it isn’t about promising to pay him back for it. 

“The screen. The dead screen, it, I turned off the cable box and it was blue.” He talks like he didn’t even hear what Tony had said to him. "I couldn't-I tried, and I couldn't. It just, it hurt. Bad." 

"Blue." Tony thinks about this for a long moment. "Blue...hurts. Blue bad. Right. That...makes no sense, sorry, I'm not following." Clint grows quiet at this, and Tony huffs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. Why...why does blue hurt?" 

"Headache," Clint goes on after a moment. "Really bad ones. I just, I see. I see him. Them, the stuff, the...place." It's all very annoyingly vague, but Tony doesn't push. Instead he just nods, tightens his grip and buries his face in Clint's hair. He smells nice, for someone who's been sleeping in a bedroom that stinks of death. Clint rambles on about being a terrible person and how much he's been drinking and how little he's eating and Tony doesn't stop him, he just listens. 

Clint ends up talking himself ragged and Tony doesn't realize he's stopped until his breathing evens out a bit. He's the kind of sad, pathetic drunk quiet that makes Tony uncomfortable, so he shifts their weight and rolls over until he's on his back and Clint is laying on him. Clint doesn't protest, and he soon falls into an uneasy sleep. It takes Tony longer, much longer, and though he wants to roll Clint off and leave he stays there. Clint needs someone there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and line in the summary are from Poets of the Fall's "No End, No Beginning". Just going to wing this one, as I feel that's the only way to do things except dinner plans.
> 
> Also not sure if this whole thing is going to be in present tense, or if I'll switch to past tense instead. If you have any suggestions, feel free to tell me.


	2. We Awaken And Still We Don't See

Clint comes down to breakfast the next morning smelling like he bathed in alcohol. The stench is so pungent, Tony has to pinch his nose closed as he walks past and heads straight to the coffee machine.

“Aren’t you going into work or something?” He asks, watching the archer give up on finding a glass and sit with the half-full pot at a seat across the island from him. “Like…agent stuff to do?” 

“No,” Clint responds gruffly, flipping open the pot lid and taking a whiff. He makes a face and leans back, head hanging over the back of the chair. “I’m not allowed back yet. I require something something extensive brain testing or whatever.” 

“So nothing constructive in your near future.” Tony nods and shovels a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. 

“Drinking doesn’t count?” 

“That’s what Pepper tells me, but I disagree.” 

“I thought so.” Clint lays an arm over his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Pushing the coffee pot away, he declares rather bluntly, “Whatever it is, just say it. I can smell the disappointment already.” 

“I’m not-what?” Tony drops his fork at that; he’s still a bit shocked that Clint could even function as well as he had been thus far, let alone tune into other peoples’ emotions. Then again, he figures, probably should stop second guessing SHIELD agents. They’d done nothing but surprise him. “It’s not disappointment. It’s concern.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

“You’d be surprised what you need. For starters, a bath.” 

Clint scoffs, responding in a good-natured tone. “Rude.” 

“Says the man who smells like he slept in a rusty metal tub full of Kraken.” 

“I didn’t think you’d drink something as plebeian as Kraken.” 

Tony smiles though he knows Clint can’t see it. “I didn’t think you’d know how to use words as complex as “plebeian”. Guess we’re both full of surprises.” With that he clears his throat and sits up, grabbing his fork and resuming his meal. “Do you want something to eat?” 

“No.” Clint responds quite frankly. “No. If I eat, I am going to hurl.” Tony shrugs and doesn’t press on, but Clint doesn’t drop conversation. “Did you sleep with me last night?” 

“Not in so many words, but yes.” He returns like this is something he does nightly, just bunks down with emotionally unstable members of his team and cuddles them into security. “I was up before you, obviously. So sorry I didn’t leave a note.” 

Clint groans and makes a motion, holding his arms and waving them a little, like he’s trying to get up. Then he swats at the air and says, “Fuck. I don’t care. I’m sorry.” 

Tony frowns and shakes his head, this time setting his fork down, and leans forward with his arms on the island. “There’s no need to apologize, Clint.” 

“I never said I was apologizing, just that I was sorry.” Clint half-jokes, but there’s a sincere, dolorous tone to it. He winces and puts a hand to his side. “I appreciate it, I really do.” 

Tony only nods and suggests, “You can take a shower in my room. I’ll go fish out some clothes for you.” Then, more seriously, “I don’t mind you staying here, but you can’t live with your room like that. It’s…well, it’s disgusting.” 

“Thanks, mom. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“You don’t have to clean it.” 

“But you just said-”

Tony holds up a hand and cuts him off. “I’ll have Pepper call someone and get it taken care of. Dude, if you need…therapy or something, I don’t know, just tell me. I can get it for you.” 

“What I need right now is some screwdrivers.” 

“What you need right now is a bath and a nap.” 

“Yeah,” Clint nods, not a hint of resistance in his voice. “Yeah, those too.” 

“Those first.” Tony gets up and moves around the island, holding his hand out to Clint to take. It seems like an odd gesture but Clint takes it and slides out of his seat, crashing into the other man. Tony keeps him as upright as he can as he leads him back to his own bedroom, one arm tight around his waist. “You know,” he said as he opened the bedroom door and lead him towards the bathroom, “I think your scent is rubbing off on me.” 

“Yeah,” Clint gives him a lopsided grin, and Tony thinks for just a moment that he looks rather fetching in a “Help Me, I Can’t Do Things On My Own Because Reasons” kind of way. Tony likes that about Clint despite the fact that the archer would vehemently deny requiring any kind of aid; it’s not in a way that he’ll say Tony _hadn’t_ help him, but Tony knows that if he wasn’t inebriated and hung over and couldn’t really walk on his own, he wouldn’t have accepted Tony’s assistance. He would have pushed him away, told him to fuck off and stalked back to his room. Right now, he just went along with it. He was helpless as a kitten. It scared Tony, just a little bit. 

But he didn’t mention this as he turned on the shower while Clint stripped. He didn’t say anything except, “Towels there, soaps and shit there, if you need to shave it’s in the medicine cabinet,” and he left the fact that he’d be steering Clint to his bed afterwards for required rest after unspoken. Clint only gives grunts and hums in response as he climbs into the shower and pulls the glass door shut. 

When Tony’s gone, Clint grabs the handle on the shower and turns the hot water on until it’s almost unbearable and washes his hair quickly. He drops the bottles in the bottom of the tub and grabs the body wash, pouring a generous amount out onto his hands. 

This is the part he hates, he knows it. It’s why he hasn’t showered in a while, really, though no one’s noticed because he smells like booze all the time. It’s why when he does, he does it quickly, without looking, singing to himself or thinking of happier times even though those days are few and far in between. But something in his stomach twists, and he looks down, and suddenly he can’t stop. 

He feels Loki’s hands on him, again. On his hips. Long, slender fingers, beautiful and delicate looking but so strong and unforgiving, tracing up his sides, moving around to his chest. He feels hands there still, shoving him back and it makes him slip and hit the wall. 

Clint struggles to regain his footing and fight off the memory. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t feel hands moving but he feels the places they touched, and those places are all over him. With his stomach heaving and his head pounding he crouches down in the shower stall and starts scrubbing himself furiously. It isn’t long before he starts hitting his head against the back wall and then turns smashing it repeatedly into the glass door. 

In the middle of his tantrum, Clint feels a burst of cold air as the shower door opens and hands reach in to grab him. He’s hoisted kicking and covered in soap from the shower by Tony, who just pulls him onto the bathroom floor and holds him. Tony ends up on his ass with his arms around Clint, legs spread apart, but Clint is on his knees facing him. His head is against Tony’s collar bones, arms tight around Tony’s midsection, and he starts to whimper. Whimpers turn into quick hiccups, which in turn become sobbing; before he knows it he’s a quivering mess in Tony’s arms and all Tony is doing is rocking him back and forth and stroking his hair and promising him, sincerely, that everything’s going to be okay. 

And in spite of himself, hearing those words…Clint really wants to believe him, even if he can’t bring himself to.

.

Clint is burrowed into Tony’s bed. That’s the best way he can find to describe the situation; he is has made a real nest on Tony’s bed using his $3000 dollar comforter and pillows and he looks goddamn tiny. Not that Tony would ever say that out loud, or even mention that he was watching Clint sleep, but Clint was the kind of pitiful that only comes after a serious emotional breakdown. The kind that Tony had had before, the kind that he knew would be followed even more. Tony knew Clint wasn’t ready for that; he hadn’t been, either. But he knew that he’d be there with him when it happened, and that he wouldn’t fuck up because at least had some sort of idea of what to say. 

As he pushes away from the dresser and heads out of the room, Tony sighs and leans his head back, pinches the bridge of his nose. “JARVIS?” 

“Yes, sir?” the A.I.’s voice make Tony smile, just a bit. The smiled fades as he realizes that he actually didn’t know what he was going to say. Was he going to thank him for telling him Clint was trying to bash his skull in in the shower? It seems a little weird. 

A thought suddenly pops into his head. “I want you to, you know. Keep a watch on Barton.” He gestures with a thumb back at the door though it was pointless. “Like what you did this afternoon. I need to make sure he stays…”

“Safe, sir?” Tony sighs. “Very well, sir. Should I inform him…?”

“No, no, God, no. Tell no one. No, tell Pepper, but other than her tell no one because they’ll think it’s weird. Actually, Pepper might think it’s weird, too, don’t tell her.” 

“I’ll send her a message, sir.” 

“Good, exactly what I want.” Tony shakes his head and rolls his shoulder. “If anyone comes stomping in, please tell them to shut up, JARVIS. And let me know when the room’s all done with.” 

“Sir,” JARVIS replies in agreement, and Tony returns to the room. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his sweater and crawls into bed with Clint. He makes sure to reach out and wrap his arms around him, pulls him tight to his chest. It’s a tenderness that Tony isn’t used to giving because he doesn’t think many people really deserve it, but if anyone does it’s definitely Clint. 

The other man trembles in his arms, almost like he agrees, and Tony closes his eyes with the uneasy knowledge that he won’t be able to rest, because Clint won’t be able to, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry things are a little slow moving. I'm working on getting some more action in there, I promise, I'm just also working on some other things at the same time, too. :)


	3. Just a Matter of Time and Place

Bruce lays his arms on the table and sighs, watching Tony pace back and forth across the room. He hasn't stopped to take a break since he started; he just keeps lighting up and puffing away, drinking straight from a bottle that's missing a label. Bruce wants to ask him to stop and clarify, but he thinks it's too late to bother now. 

"I don't know what the fuck is up with him, anyway. I think it's...Post. Post traumatic or something. But he wouldn't want SHIELD to know, you know? Because that would mean that he'd lose precious time away from it. Not being back there is fucking him up and if they didn't know, he'd be fine, but goddamn if you're even on the same floor as him you can't smell anything _but_ him." 

"Are you saying he needs a shower?" Bruce asks, trying to get Tony to stop pacing. It's giving him a headache. 

"I'm saying that he needs-" Tony stops short, realizing he has no idea. He's playing this whole thing by ear. He'll probably continue to play this whole thing by ear. "I'm saying that he needs help, Banner. 

"Well," Bruce taps on the table a bit. "Can you...you know, can you go back and say the part about the things you mentioned?" 

"What?" Tony almost drops the cigar that he really shouldn't be smoking, thrown off by the fact that Bruce had been paying zero attention. Or maybe he had been and he just wasn't keeping up. Tony was disappointed; he expected better of Bruce. 

"I, look, okay. Something is up, up as in wrong, wrong as in very, very bizarre, with Guo Jing in there. His head's all not right and I think, I really think, he might need therapy or some shit. He's not stable." 

"Of course he isn't," Bruce agrees, matter-of-factly, and this is a bigger shock to Tony than the fact that Bruce hadn't been able to keep up with him just moments ago. "Tony, he's been here like, six months. He's barely left his room, unless there's hero things to be done. And even then he's just," Bruce tapped his chin. "He's...different. Not there, really. Focused, for sure, but, well," he waves his hand a bit, hoping Tony will understand. The other man nods like he does and that's enough for Bruce. 

"Can't believe I didn't notice that before," he mutters, half to himself, and Bruce snorts. "What?" 

"To be fair, man, you're not exactly good at picking up on other peoples' feelings. The whole emotion spectrum, when it isn't happening to you, doesn't really seem to matter." 

"That's not true," Tony defends himself even though he knows that's a lie. “I am totally in tune with stuff and things and people.” He takes a quick sip of his Macallan. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I am a terrible person and I should feel bad.” 

“No,” Bruce’s eyes bugged a little. “No, Tony, no. It’s just,” he struggles to find the words, waves his hands once more and continues, “you just need to be a bit better about picking up on social cues.” 

“Well, that’s true.” Tony takes another swig and leans on the table, grinning at him. “That’s what he’s going to help me with.” 

“Does he know this?” 

“Not exactly. Just between you and me, he doesn’t know I’m helping him, either.” He looks at Bruce like he just shared with him the secret of life. “Because I’m sneaky and a genius and I can get things done.” 

Bruce just nods like Tony’s a fucking idiot, because he’s pretty sure that he is. “Alright. And where is he now.” 

“Watch and be amazed,” Tony stands up straight. “JARVIS! Where is our vertically challenged arrow slinging friend?” 

“He’s out, sir,” JARVIS answered, sounding extremely satisfied with himself. Tony has a brief moment where he regrets _ever_ giving JARVIS personality-and this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last-and he growls just low enough that Bruce strains to hear it. 

“What?” 

“I said that he is out, sir.” 

“Yeah, yeah, thanks. I get that. Where did he go?” 

“I do not know.” 

“You’re useless.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Tony drops his glass on the table and turns around. “Have to go find him, what the fuck is he thinking?” He mutters as he stalks out of the room. Bruce jumps up and grabs his coat, not keen on leaving an unstable Clint vulnerable to the ranting of an agitated and buzzed Tony Stark. 

-

Clint stuffs his hands into his pockets and huffs loudly. Just because he’s drunk, neurotic, paranoid, banged up and terrified of his own shadow doesn’t mean he can’t be a superhero. 

Actually, those are the exact reasons he _knows_ he shouldn’t be a superhero, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to try. He walks around the empty midnight city because he knows that someone, somewhere is going to need to be saved in this godforsaken place. Clint wants to be in one of those somewhere when it happens. He _has _to be in one of those somewheres, _glued__ to one of those somewheres, because if he doesn’t get his fight on he is going to literally explode. He saw a video, once, of a man who fell on more three power lines at the same time. Clint vaguely remembers the reason being because the voltage or amperage or whatever-age in them was different, and you can’t touch two power lines at the same time or you’re going to die, and this man exploded like someone popped a balloon full of spaghetti sauce._

Clint is going to be that poor man if he doesn’t punch someone who deserves it in the mouth. 

Pulling his collar up, he keeps his ears open, in tune to the heartbeat of the buildings around him. It’s still a ground zero here and he figures if anyone’s going to be doing something shady they will be doing it here. 

And he’s right. He hears arguing in an alley not two buildings away from him. He creeps up on the alley and peers around just to make sure it isn’t two friends having an argument or something. It isn’t and he’s kind of proud that his instincts haven’t failed him. They aren’t very far down the alley. One is a large man with his back to Clint, one fist balled. In his other hand he holds an almost comically large hunting knife. The other is a man of much smaller build with white-blonde and black hair. His arms are by their sides but they’re…well, they’re glowing. Bright blue, in fact. Clint’s kind of amazed. And then he’s really terrified, because they’re glowing bright blue. 

He should just leave. But the bigger man doesn’t seem to be stepping away and this could get ugly. The last thing they need on top of everyone worrying about the Avengers, is some mutant man-hunt going on as well. Clint scrubs a hand through his hair and lets out an exasperated sigh, then steps into the alley behind the tall man. 

“Hey, there, buddy,” he says sweetly and almost gently to the guy sporting the child’s-head sized fist. His skin crawls and his body shakes as he reaches a hand out to touch the man’s shoulder. When he does, the man whirls around and raises his fist. His snarl is clear even in the dark. “Maybe you should leave the poor guy alone. He gets enough crap from those anti-mutie-whatsithoose.” 

“Maybe you should shut the fuck up.” The man returns and raises both knife and fist just a bit, then turns back to his now clearly confused victim. Clint releases a tense breath and rubs his face while he mutters to himself that this is stupid, he’s a fucking idiot, and he is going to die. He is definitely going to die. 

He decides it’s no less than what he deserves and taps the man’s shoulder again. “Look, I’m just speaking from experience, messing with anyone who shimmers blue is kind of-” the man’s fist slams into Clint’s jaw and knocks him off balance. Before he knows it he’s laying a smooch on the brick wall. 

The man smirks in victory and once again returns to the poor kid, who is now positively terrified. From his place kneeling besides the wall, Clint can see it, the same thing that was in him when he was under Loki-reluctance. He could have roasted this guy’s ass a long time before Clint came along. It was obvious now why he hadn’t-he didn’t want to. He probably wouldn’t. He’d probably let this guy gut him instead. It made Clint sick to think about. 

These thoughts boiling a fresh rage in his mind, Clint forces himself to his feet and wiped off his bloody mouth. 

“A bad idea.” He pushes himself forward and slams into the guy with all his strength. The man tumbles forward, loses his knife. As it goes Clint throws his fists into his head once, twice, three times, feeling adrenaline forcing him on. He feels no fear, only power. It’s nauseating and delicious at the same time. 

When he thinks the guy has had enough he pulls himself up and falls back, waiting for him to come after him. The giant gets up and lunges for his knife, which Clint goes after as well; he slams his foot into the man’s stomach, then feels a hand grab his ankle and pull him down. Now, with the tables turn, Clint’s adrenaline bleeds out and he feels helpless as a kitten. 

“Next time,” the man spits on him and delivers a finalizing kick to his stomach. “You might fuck with someone like me, princess.” He turns around, knife in hand, ready to finish what he’d started on. Instead he finds the other man from before with arms engulfed in blue flame and a nasty sneer on his face. 

“Unless you fancy skin grafts, you might want to leave.” He warns as he takes a step towards the man. Clint uses the building as aid to climb to his feet and watches, a little bit mystified at the sudden display. When the guy takes another step towards the man with the knife he flinches, and a third sends him stumbling backwards toward the alley entrance. Clint turns to watch him go. 

After a tense, silent moment, his would-be-rescuee breathes a sigh of relief. “Wow.” Is all he says as he drops the human-torch act and brushes off his clothes. “Wow, I didn’t think that’d actually work.” 

“You couldn’t have tried that earlier?” Clint asks between spitting out mouthfuls of blood. “No. No, actually, I didn’t think that’d work either. How’d you do that?” 

“Uh,” he shrugs, “I don’t know? I just…I just did. I do that, sometimes, it's kind of my thing.” 

“Your parents must be so proud.” Clint stands up and groans when his back pops. “Fuck.” 

“Are you okay?” The other man approaches him cautiously, holding a hand out. “You look like you’re going to pass out.” 

Clint holds up his hands and shakes his head. “M’fine. M’fine. I’ve been through worse.” The other just nods again and continues to approach him slowly. Clint decides it’s best to leave. “Well, you…you take care now. And stop running into people in alleys with large knives and ham fists.” 

“I’ll take note of that,” re plies, “but you really shouldn’t be walking around like that.” 

Clint backs out into the street without realizing and chuckles. “Please, I’ll be fine. I’m, I’m a…you know what, just stop walking into alleys. They’re not-”

That’s as far as he gets in his sentence before the cab runs into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some updates: added some new tags, as I figured out who all is going to be in this story. Took a while to decide if Steve would be with an OFC or a character that exists in the Marvel universe and, at the suggestion of a friend, decided.


	4. Run By Fears and the Flaws of Attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot more for this chapter, but my computer ate it. Twice. :| So there's very little expansion, and I apologize for that-but it's been a week since I updated, and I need to get to work on the next part, as well as work more on some other things I have going right now. So, sorry about that, but I hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless.

It’s been a good two hours and Bryan is very, very quiet. Bruce is starry-eyed watching him from across the hospital waiting room, and it’s making Natasha a little more than nauseous. She lets out a low hum as Pepper reaches over and interlaces their fingers. “Sweetie,” she says, very quietly and in an almost threatening tone. “We’ve been over this, and it is a no.” 

“I know this,” Natasha replies in the same hushed tone. She’s pretending to read a three year old issue of Better Homes & Gardens for Pepper’s sake, because she knows Pepper loves that stupid magazine and she knows Pepper wants her to read more. She’s also painfully aware that Pepper knows she isn’t reading it. 

“We’re only taking him back to Stark Tower,” Pepper reminds her. “Because Ororo wants to have a chat with him.” 

“As would I,” Natasha returns. “Come on. They’re definitely eyefucking.” This is a desperate lie, because Bryan is messing with a fray in his jeans and looking at the floor. Bruce is really doing all the eyefucking, staring at Bryan like he’s looking at the Garden of Eden. Natasha nods as if this gives her statement truth. “Definitely eyefucking.” 

“Definitely _not_ ,” Pepper’s becoming exasperated. Natasha only smiles at her. 

“Sorry, peaches,” she says, planting a soft kiss on her temple. “You can’t ignore destiny.” 

.

Clint cracks his eyes open very, very slowly. He hadn’t even been unconscious, just nervously trying to avoid Tony’s gaze as the doctor explained things to him. Tony, of course, is the only one allowed in his room with him. Clint doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know why they couldn’t let Bruce in, or Natasha, or Pepper, who is probably the most stable and rationale one out of all of them. He doesn’t voice this, though. He just sits there and listens to the doctor babble on. 

If it hadn’t been for Bryan, Clint could have, maybe, quite possibly, not totally assuredly died, and he thinks that’s something he’d have liked very much because anything would be better than sitting in that room. As the old man drones, he sneaks a look over at a very bored Tony. The other man leans against the counter, feet crossed at the ankles, a hand on his face and elbow rested on his crossed arm. He looks as painfully bored as Clint does, but Clint’s not an idiot. It’s a mask. He can tell that Tony is furious. It’s probably with him, really. That shakes him up a little bit. 

The doctor finally hands him a prescription and says something about bed rest and calling in the morning and Clint finally blurts out with, “Yes, father.” The doctor isn’t amused. Tony snorts. Clint feels a little disheartened that that was all he could get. 

“I’m serious,” the old man crones in a voice that sounds like he’ll start spitting dust out on Clint any moment. “You could have died. This isn’t exactly a laughing matter, as much as present company…” he cast a disapproving over-the-tops-of-my-spectacles look at Tony “…would like to pretend otherwise.” 

Clint didn’t even try to hide the look of shame that crossed his features. “Sorry.” 

“So,” Tony stood up. “Is he good to go? We can take him home and everything?” 

“Your friend is not a puppy, Mr. Stark.” The doctor nods. “But yes. Please remember to come back immediately if something happens.” 

“Any way we can assure something doesn’t, in the mean time?” Tony asks as he stands up and Clint slides off the examination table. 

“Of course. Take the medication. Keep him in bed, keep an eye on him.” He gives a wry smile as Clint pauses at the door, waiting for Tony. “Don’t get hit by any more cabs.” 

“Rude.” Clint huffs under his breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I don’t see why I had to come. M’fine.” 

“You got hit by a car. You’re lucky you aren’t Clint-salsa all over the street right now.” Tony chirps as he falls into stride next to Clint easily. Although they’re the same height, Clint looks shorter; his shoulders are hunched forward, hands jammed into his coat’s pockets and head held down. He looks especially fragile to Tony right then. 

He reaches over and hooks an arm into Clint’s, pulling him close. Clint gives him a bewildered, questioning look and Tony just shrugs because he isn’t sure why he’s doing this. “You’re a tough old nut. Just some scratches? Not a concussion? Last I checked, people tend to not just up and walk away from being run over by cabs.” 

“What can I say? I’m tougher than I look.” 

“Yeah, and here I thought Thor was invincible.” Tony gives him a toothy grin. 

“They won’t miss this, you know. They’re still going to be able to tell.” 

“Who?” Clint almost believes Tony’s confusion. Almost. 

“You know who.” He states very plainly, pulling his arm away. “They’ll see it. They see everything. They track all of their agents, active or not. Some more…intensely than others.” 

“So you’re saying getting hit by a car would be a big deal to them?” Clint stares at him with a “I can’t fucking believe those words just came from your big dumb mouth” look. Tony fights really hard not to change his expression. “If you aren’t dead and it was nothing serious, then they won’t care, will they? All you got is your noggin bounced. And even that did nothing. This won’t be that big a deal. It won’t even be a deal at all. I promise.”

Clint closes his eyes and stops suddenly. They’re standing outside, the air oddly cold despite being the middle of summer. It’s pretty clear Clint was prepared for it. Tony pulls his arm free and slides it around Clint’s stomach, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone with his free hand. 

Clint’s eyes are too heavy to stay up on their own, not without incentive. He leans his head against Tony’s shoulder and lets them slide shut. He’s always, always hated feeling helpless and weak and that’s what he feels like right then. This isn’t normal for him, especially not around team mates and damn sure not around Tony Stark; sure, lately Tony had been making him feel…well, Clint didn’t know how, because even he didn’t fully understand what he felt. But he knew that Tony made him feel strange. 

It wasn’t even a bad strange, really. He felt…safe. Warm. Not scared. Really stupid, sure-he felt like a ponce for thinking he could play hero when he could barely get through the day without having to take a long nap-but safe nonetheless, and he didn’t want to let Tony know. So he stood there and kept his eyes closed and his mouth shut and listened to Tony blabber on the phone, because he was too tired to say anything. 

“I’m sending them ahead,” Tony explains as he puts the pocket back in his phone. Clint doesn’t answer. “The others, I mean. Pepper’s sending a car for us now.” Clint lets out a low “mmmm” sound instead of answering. He feels his head getting heavier, feels it slipping down Tony’s chest just a bit. He doesn’t know why, because he wasn’t tired before. He’s not even tired now. He’s just comfortable. That scares him a little bit. 

Clint doesn’t want to fall asleep, so he raises his head up and looks right at Tony. The moment makes his heart thump a little too hard and he’s not quite sure why he does it-then again, he’s not quite sure why he’s done anything in the past six months. Tony opens his mouth to say something and Clint leans forward, very quickly, and kisses him. It’s not a serious kiss, it barely even lasts a few seconds, but it happens and it’s out there and the look on Tony’s face is rather priceless. 

“What the hell?” 

“I just wanted you to stop talking.” Clint realizes Tony hasn’t pulled his arms away, so he can’t be too put off by it. There isn’t even a look of disgust on his face, just…shock. Shock and amusement, really. Clint feels quite pleased with himself and presses his face into Tony’s shoulder. 

“Remind me to do that next time.” 

“No.” Tony huffs, but it’s more for show and Clint knows it. He thinks it’s kind of cute. 

“I bet that’s how Pepper used to get you to shut up.” 

“Pepper had her ways. None of them involved kissing me.” 

“I’m sure plenty of them involved kissing you.” 

“Please stop.” 

“No.” Tony sighs and tightens his grip just a little. He knows he’s got a long night ahead of him-and he doesn’t really care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but I love plotting!Natasha. She's always so dastardly, in a good way.  
> Also, I don't think I mentioned this before (even though I kept meaning to, because I need it): but I'm looking for a beta. I have this thing where I'm insanely frakking good at correcting grammar, unless it happens to be in my own work because I suck or something. So if anyone wants to help, please tell me. I need it, badly.


End file.
